I never saw another butterfly. . .
The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzling yellow.
Perhaps if the sun's tears sing
against a white stone. . . .
Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly 'way up high.
It went away I'm sure because it wished to
kiss the world good-bye.
For seven weeks I've lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto.
But I have found my people here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut candles in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don't live in here,
in the ghetto.
- by Pavel Friedman
This was a poem written by a child who passed away durning the Holocaust. Many children wrote poems to express their feelings but few survived.
I almost cried when I read this in Engish Class.